


Too High a Price

by Ihsan997



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Galaxy's Edge (Attraction), Star Wars: Post-New Republic Era
Genre: Betrayal, Black Spire Outpost (Star Wars), Character Death, Corruption, Enemies to Friends, Ethical Dilemmas, Forbidden, Friends to Enemies, Gen, Lightsaber Battles (Star Wars), Major Character Injury, Major Illness, Major Original Character(s), Medical Conditions, Minor Character Death, Moral Dilemmas, Original Character(s), Planet Batuu (Star Wars), Planet Mustafar (Star Wars), Planet Yavin 4 (Star Wars), The Dark Side of the Force (Star Wars), The Force, The Light Side of the Force (Star Wars), forbidden knowledge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihsan997/pseuds/Ihsan997
Summary: A few years after the Battle of Exegol, the galaxy is a quieter place. The First Order has crumbled, the Resistance has restored a semblance of civility, and galactic affairs have grown quiet. With the Sith destroyed and the Jedi disappeared once more, a lone Force-user has few options to progress and grow. Searching from one corner of the galaxy to the other, Ikutch Rasinoida gathers a small band of the lost and the wandering to help him discover the secrets of the defunct Orders - assuming they all don’t turn on each other first.This is a post-Episode IX/post-Skywalker fic based on OCs.





	1. Locked Out

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own Star Wars.

“If you continue on this path, you’ll only lead yourself to ruin.”

The repeated words reverberated off the bare walls of the drab, mostly undecorated Batuu hotel room. Nestled amid only the most basic of furniture to be expected at the galaxy’s lesser-traveled planets, the blue holocron floated above the cracked coffee table swept bare of a week’s worth of ration containers. Gears and gadgets within the glowing dodecahedron, generating the automated image of a Rutian Twi’lek whose complexion was dyed an even deeper hue of blue. As if to share in complementing the incidentally blue drapes and bedsheet, a young Pantoran man sat cross-legged on the coffee-stained floor, staring tensely at the disapproving image in front of him. A standoff was apparent even when silence filled the room, and the young man wasted a measure of time attempting to wait out a recorded likeness of a long-dead master with only a limited number of responses possible.

When the Pantoran man found himself able to admit that he couldn’t browbeat a holographic message, he relented, releasing his breath in a sigh signaling defeat after a battle of wills which he’d lost the moment he’d started. The polite stoicism of the Twi’lek woman’s likeness didn’t budge, motionless and waiting for a further stimulus to which it could respond.

The man ran a neon blue hand through his light purple hair while thinking of the right formula to outwit the pre-recorded response mechanism. “Master Secura,” he said with a softness implying exasperation rather than manners, “my only intention with accessing your holocron has been to seek enlightenment; nothing more. There’s no benefit to be gained from denying me that.”

Unmoved, the hologram of Jedi Master Aayla Secura responded with a slight variation of the same basic answer which it had been giving him for the better part of an hour. “Your aura bears the taint of the dark side,” the hologram replied in Secura’s voice, bearing a tone of pity which felt patronizing to him. “There is no greater form of enlightenment which I can grant you than encouragement to leave this path you’re on.”

He rested his cheek against his palm, no longer concerned with decorum after having argued with a fake image for so long. “If you’re concerned about the influence of the dark side, then imparting knowledge of the light side could mitigate what you view as problematic. Look, even in the worst case scenario, were I to bear bad intentions - and I don’t - then your wisdom wouldn’t allow me to commit evil actions since your teachings are inherently good.”

The image of Secura remained as obstinate as an underslept bantha. “I implore you to turn away from your current imbalance in your Force training,” the hologram said, repeating the same message with different words each time. “That is my wisdom which I share with you now. So long as your heart bears the mark of the dark side, the details of my teachings will remain inaccessible to you.”

Frustration had long since given way to resignation, and the Pantoran man subconsciously shook his head in stubborn rejection of the vague, generic advice. He raised one hand and flicked his wrist, telekinetically deactivating the holocron. The image of Master Secura disappeared while the gears turned, causing the sides of the device to fold back in on themselves. The holocron snapped shut securely, and the thrum of power in the Force ceased as it powered down. The silence in the musty hotel room felt oppressive once the digital blue glow was gone, leaving the young man empty handed for all his efforts. Not wanting to admit defeat just yet, he slid the first holocron aside and pulled a second one of the devices out of a metal case filled with bubble wrap.

The second, smaller device was shaped like a cuboctahedron per the preference of its recorder, Ki-Adi-Mundi. Complicated in form and function, the holocron laid out in the center of the coffee table, glistening in spite of the low level of light in the rented room. Straightening up his back in his cross-legged position, the Pantoran man closed his eyes and focused his energy on the aged information storage machine. The connection to an inanimate object felt less salient than that with another sentient, but the holocron pulsed with Force power nonetheless. He could feel its moving parts, its data center, and the pathways inside mimicking the neurological patterns of a rudimentary AI. And yet, as he attempted to nudge the various sides of the cuboctahedral object open, he felt - and heard - its mechanisms snap shut before they even opened fully.

Frustration burst out of the Pantoran’s throat in the form of an audible growl. Gritting his teeth but readily adjusting his tactic, he spent more than a few minutes performing breath control exercises and reducing his heart rate. Keeping his eyes closed, he let himself fall into a meditative state, losing track of the time until he felt his mind clear and then felt virtually nothing at all. And yet, even after finding his want for the contents of the holocron to dissipate - to truly disappear if but for a moment, along with other desires - the secrets of the Cerean masters teachings remained locked to him. Unlike the holocron of Aayla Secura, the second one wouldn’t even open. A barrier of light, metaphorical yet very palpable, rebuffed his attempts to open the device. His soul had been marked.

With a heavy sigh, the young man rose, stretching and shaking out his legs after such a long time spent sitting in the same position. He checked the time, finding that he’d been holed up in that same bland room for several hours on his second day of attempting to crack the holocrons. Finally cutting his losses, he returned them to the metal case and stored it in the rusty yet functional safe in the room’s closet. As he donned a violet kaftan he’d removed from one of the hangars, he stared at the safe, reaching out through the Force yet feeling no further pulses of energy from the now inert machines. To feel defeated by inanimate objects was silly, as he knew, but he couldn’t avoid that feeling as he walked out of his hotel room’s automatic door, locked it with a thumbprint, and passed through the stained, rundown walls of the no-name hotel tucked among an unplanned, disorganized sprawl of asymmetrically placed buildings in the east end of Black Spire Outpost.

Sporadic crowds of people from all corners of the galaxy either crossed in front of the Pantoran man or stood in his way though he never outwardly reacted. Walking with a military gait, he wasted no time in crossing the colorful yet polluted town, stepping over puddles, refuse piles, and smaller sentients until he reached a particular establishment lacking in a clear branding or marketing motif on the outside of the plaster-covered structure. Baubles and relics from the galaxy’s edge and beyond laid on stands near the door as well as glass cases inside, marking what the initiated recognized as the Den of Antiquities. Only a few other patrons were inside the store at that time of day, allowing the man with a mission to approach the blaster-proof glass enclosure protecting the sluggish proprietor.

Familiarity pricked at the Pantoran’s Force sense when the owner himself, Dok-Ondar, turned to face him. Though ever guarded, the merchant of many strange things did display the common courtesy to put away his datapad full of financial spreadsheets, sliding the a panel open on the anti-theft glass to speak more easily.

“Ikutch, nice to have you back. The last crate of antiques you brought in flew off the shelves as quickly as I’d expected.” As if to punctuate the rare complement, the Ithorian merchant motioned toward a single empty case which had once contained a rare Chandrilan painting which the Pantoran man had appropriated for the den.

Briefly scanning the area around them to ensure that nobody was listening, the Pantoran named Ikutch leaned onto the counter to speak more quietly. “I’m glad that last delivery worked out for you…maybe we should discuss a higher finder’s fee next time.”

“We can discuss a lot of things,” Dok-Ondar said noncommittally. “But it’s only been a few days; do you have anything new for me?”

“No, not anything new; just news about something old.” Ikutch put on his best fake smile to conceal his disappointment. “I’m having trouble with the two holocrons I bought, actually.”

The Ithorian’s shoulders tensed up visibly. Never one to be subtle or indirect, Dok-Ondar looked Ikutch directly in the eye - or in this case, the eyestalks. “I warned you before you paid,” he said in a terse manner.

“I’m not complaining,” Ikutch replied, though the sole proprietor remained tense.

“You know that there aren’t refunds here.”

“I’m not asking for a refund, Dok. I’m just answering your question.”

“I didn’t ask you to list what’s wrong with the items I legally sold you,” the Ithorian continued, unabated. “I asked if you had anything new for me. You’re going on a tangent.”

The Pantoran’s light purple eyebrows arched downward in irritation. “It’s called polite conversation-“

“Then please don’t disrespect my wares.”

“Dok!” Ikutch said in a lower volume yet with a firmer tone. “I’m just making small talk before I get down to business. I didn’t come here for an argument. I remember what you said about the holocrons.”

“Buyer beware.” The Ithorian’s comment elicited an annoyed expression from a man who was both a supplier and a customer, and the bipedal gastropod changed the subject without retracting his brusque statements. “Tell me what your problem was so I can find products more suited to you.”

“That sounds better.” Farsight allowed Ikutch to see, without his eyes, that one of the window shoppers passed behind him to leave; Dok-Ondar didn’t stop them, and the Pantoran man waited for them to leave before continuing. “Both holocrons gave me the same problem as the one I found on Nar Shaddaa. You might remember the story.”

“Yes, it was the most boring Nar Shaddaa story I’ve ever heard.”

“Dok. I’m trying to have a serious conversation. I’m having a problem: I can’t unlock holocrons from the Jedi Order anymore. The holograms react to me poorly and play automated messages about my ‘life path,’ and one of them I got here wouldn’t even open.”

Dok-Ondar nodded deeply. “I know, I know. This isn’t a surprise to me. The First Order used to run this place, you know.”

At the mention of the First Order, the Pantoran’s face twisted into an expression of disgust. “What do those fascists have to do with this?” Ikutch asked.

“An example from stories which I can tell you another time, when I have someone I can trust to man the register. The short version is that, for people of your moral persuasion, shall we say, then holocrons which are colored blue won’t open. The red ones, however, will pop right open for you.”

Ikutch paused for a moment while he considered what the sluggish salesman was saying. “You’re talking about [i]Sith[/i] holocrons?”

Dok-Ondar nodded. “Yes. Ones made by the Sith.” He paused, watching intently while his customer mulled over the idea in uncertainty.

“Wow…Dok, I don’t know. I’ve made questionable choices, but that’s…what you’re talking about isn’t to be taken lightly.”

“It isn’t. But I know you pretty well after working with you this past year, Iku. You’re not dumb. You know how to take what’s useful and leave what’s harmful, and if you want to keep developing this…” The Ithorian waved his fingers around Ikutch’s head. “…this magic religious stuff you types are capable of, then you’ll need to keep learning from these things. There are no more actual Jedi or Sith around for you to just ask questions to. And only I can-“

“Only you can give me what I need,” Ikutch sighed, finishing the sentence for him. “You’re too good at what you do, Dok. That isn’t a complement, by the way.”

“Ingrate. Listen, I have one in storage in Surabat. That isn’t far, but I won’t have anyone to drive out there for another two days. Stick around on-world until then, and I can have it brought here for you.”

Apprehension gripped the Pantoran’s heart. “Dok, I don’t know…the Sith were evil. I’m no angel, but I hate them. I’ve ever even met one, and I still hate them.”

“This isn’t about ideology, Iku, it’s about your training!” Ikutch glanced skeptically at the Ithorian, and the sluggish man knew that his feigned concern wouldn’t work. “Alright, look, I have this thing on my hands, and I can’t go selling it to just anybody. If someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing hurts themselves, I could face complications; the alternative is letting this expensive piece of merchandise take up space in my storage unit.”

“You lost me at expensive.”

“Listen! I wasn’t finished. This is a win-win for us both. If you take this off my hands, I’ll accept the store credit I used for part of your last payment - even though it doesn’t match the worth of this thing. You get a holocron that will probably work for you, I can at least recoup most of the cost, plus I don’t owe you store credit anymore, and nobody blows themselves up or gets possessed by ghosts.”

“I’m not even convinced that the last part is guaranteed,” Ikutch said cautiously.

“Iku, listen. In two days, my guy will drive to Surabat to transfer some stuff out of my storage unit there. You go with him as his backup and take a look at the holocron for yourself. He can show you where it is, he’s trustworthy. Once you see it, you can make a more informed decision there, right?”

“And you get a free security guard for your driver. I see how it is.”

Reaching forward and tapping Ikutch hard on the twist, Dok-Ondar pushed hard to win him over. “Think win-win, Iku; think win-win. Just stick around Batuu for two more days; it’s not like you’re ever short on cash.”

The two of them leaned on opposite sides of the counter for a few moments, Dok-Ondar staring intently and Ikutch looking away. He still felt a little bitter about the Jedi devices locking him out; and that, more than anything, pushed him to relent.

“Don’t let Savi hear about this,” Ikutch said to Dok-Ondar’s delight. “He’ll be upset if he knows.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Iku. All of my deals are confidential.” The Ithorian stood up straight - or as straight as members of his species could - and returned to his datapad as two actual customers entered the den. “Two days. Just be here.”

The Pantoran nodded and stepped away, allowing the Bith couple to line up and start asking real questions about purchases. The same apprehension wouldn’t avail itself of him, but he returned to his hotel room that night having decided to give the Ithorian’s idea a chance. Little did he know what a circuitous ordeal the chain of events would lead to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins...

The speeder van’s repulsorlift vane screeched as they rounded a corner, announcing its lack of maintenance as the vehicle nearly collided with a junker’s wagon on the beaten path leading to a more settled area of the Surabat River Valley. The old Duro driving the wagon shook a fist at the two men in the front seat of the van, venting local displeasure at the delivery run driving way too fast for such a crowded, poorly designed area.

Ikutch gripped the door handle on the passenger side of the speeder van, clinging for dear life as Dok-Ondar’s driver disregarded virtually every rule of the road on their hour-plus journey. “Slow down! This place has as many pedestrians as it does these old petrified trees.”

The driver, a portly Twi’lek man carrying an air of irreverence, seemed to think the Pantoran’s comment was funny. “This is the perfect place to learn to drive,” the driver said as spires and living trees whizzed by the windows.

“You’re going to get us in a serious accident.”

“Only if we crash,” the Twi’lek driver said unironically.

He didn’t even notice the perplexed look Ikutch gave him, focusing instead on weaving in and out of foot traffic in a cluster of warehouses there in Surabat. A largely impoverished population draped in the light brown robes so typical of such galactic communities barely even noticed the van once the driver slowed down, used to pedestrians and vehicles intermingling on unpaved paths with no clear traffic rules. Plaster buildings with metallic cones atop them, rounding into circular forms per the planet’s architectural aesthetic, laid scattered about with no real urban planning, compelling the driver to take the speeder van up a flight of stone steps to a higher road at one point. On more than one occasion, the van felt like it was about to tip to the side due to the uneven terrain with scattered rock formations on the sides of the buildings, but eventually, the van squeezed through a few asymmetrical foot paths littered with unregulated market stalls and reached the off-site storage which Dok-Ondar had built in the cheapest and most poorly designed part of the river valley.

The automatic door of the private storage unit lifted upwards like the garage doors described in history books about ancient cultures. “Smooth ride,” the driver said, inexplicably, while backing the van into the storage unit amid rows and rows of crates covered in tarps. As if to punctuate the falsehood of his statement, the van jumped as it came to a stop in the poorly lit unit.

Ikutch didn’t even wait for the loud, rickety door to shut behind the vehicle before disembarking from the van. A number of snarky comments floated through his mind, but the driver seemed so oblivious that any such remarks would have been lost on the pear-shaped man. Instead, Ikutch shook out the post-ride jitters and scanned the cramped, unkempt storage unit and all its stuffy glory. “When are we going to head back to the outpost?” the Pantoran asked intently.

The Twi’lek driver was already dusting off a team of labor droids against one wall, standing with his back to Ikutch and revealing an embarrassing set of plumber pants. “Eh, not that long…just a few hours.”

Ikutch did a double-take. “Not that long?” he asked rhetorically. “Why would loading and unloading require hours?”

The driver pulled his pants up and began manually punching codes into the backs of the droids. “The boss has specific orders, I’m just…one minute…yeah, I’m just giving the orders to the droids now. They have to get some specific stuff from specific places in here. It’s technical stuff.” Once the driver was finished, he turned around while tucking in a faded t-shirt with a picture of an opera star from Ryloth. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to hit the billiard hall down the street. You’re free to come, but that red triangle thingie you want is in the back room.”

Disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to just take the merchandise and leave, Ikutch spent a moment running a thumb along the edge of his beard while considering the time. He’d have to adjust his plan for the day. “I believe I’ll stay here. The back room is in that direction?”

“Yeah, behind the broken statue of the Hutt lady. If I don’t see you at billiards, I’ll just find you back there. Hey, if you need to use the refresher, just remember that the water pressure is kind of low.”

Ikutch grimaced but didn’t comment. “I’ll…keep that in mind, thanks. Have a good match.”

“Thanks!” the driver replied in an unnecessarily loud voice.

Once the Twi’lek had taken his leave and the labor droids had gotten to work opening and sifting through crates, Ikutch walked toward the back room. Excited to finally see the object up close, yet also nervous about actually making contact with a Sith artifact, he felt his chest tighten up as he walked toward the back door. He’d read extensively about both the Jedi and the Sith, more than many people who’d actually met them, and as he walked through the back door into a room which looked like an unused recording studio, he remembered the hundred-and-one reasons why he’d celebrated the end of the Sith alongside the rest of the galaxy. They disgusted him, they repulsed him…but they also fascinated him, he admitted while he scanned the rows of music recordings lining the dust-laden shelves.

In the center of the room, however, was his target. Dormant and lifeless, the red pyramid sat atop a low glass table long receipt printed in Huttese. Ikutch didn’t even know what type of businesses used physical receipts; most shady deals were kept off the books anyway, and the long roll of paper seemed rather anachronistic. Four office chairs bearing entirely different design aesthetics surrounded the stained table which looked like it belonged in a dentist’s waiting room.

Just as cold and sterile as such medical facilities was the holocron itself. As Ikutch walked closer to the table, his skin spontaneously broke out in goosebumps in spite of the stuffy warmth inside the storage unit. He shivered, wondering why when he laid a hand on one of the aged leather chairs and found the surface to be warm. The edges of the holocron were made of durasteel, but the flat surfaces were comprised of a sort of glass compound. The glass was unwashed, dirty and smudged from years of neglect - maybe even centuries. When he stared at the surface, he could vaguely see a reflection in his shape, but the features were distorted due to the sullied nature of the device. Grime warped the image of his face, almost creating a picture of a different person - familiar in an unpleasant way.

The Pantoran pulled his kaftan a little more tightly to stave off the feeling of cold and stared at the red pyramid for a long time. “I hate you,” he murmured rhetorically, gazing upon the Balc language inscriptions on the edges with a measure of disgust. “The whole galaxy hates you. So many perished…so many were ruined because of you all.”

Just then, Ikutch realized that he’d been squeezing the chair with enough force to leave an imprint of his fingernails on the surface. “But…” He released his grip and relaxed his hand. “…I need you if I want to continue my learning.”

Bending down, he blew some of the lint and dander off the surface of the pyramidal holocron, clearing off one of the glass surfaces just enough for his face to be partially visible. Seeing his own reflection staring back at him made him feel silly.

“I’m talking to an inanimate object,” he said, shaking his head at himself.

Sweeping off one of the chairs, he sat down cross-legged, removed his shoes, and attempted to mediate for a moment. Eyes closed and breathing slowed, he reached out into the Force, feeling around the inner mechanisms of the holocron to inspect the exact means of opening it. To his surprise, he felt as if the gears and sprockets were motionless yet warm as if they’d already moved. When he opened his eyes, he received an even bigger surprise, and he visibly shook in the chair.

The holocron was already open. At no point had he felt any activity from the direction of the Force-sensitive device, yet there it was: open, activated, and already projecting a haunting image which stared back at him.

A vaguely Human, or Near-Human, figure stared at him from underneath a hood. The hologram was dated, flickering frequently and shifting with a moving horizontal band of white distortion, and Ikutch wondered how ancient the holocron really was. The hooded figure continued to stare at him intently, and he realized that it might be programmed only to respond to prompting.

“Start,” he ordered the holographic image.

When the hooded figure spoke, it projected the unpleasant voice of a person who’d lived many more hard years than the appearance implied. The lower portion of the figure’s face, visible beneath the hood, did bear a measure of corruption on it, but not as much as the voice. “If this has opened for you, then you’re proven worthy…for the beginning,” the image said in a stale, grizzled voice which clicked every few syllables. “For this recording will only respond to those who’ve already started down a dark path.”

A bit of guilt welled up inside of Ikutch, realizing that her statement rang true given the series of life choices which had led him that far. “I’m ready,” he said after a moment of hesitation.

“You are. And I, Darth Noctyss, will share some of my secrets with you so that my knowledge may live on.”

Although Ikutch hadn’t been staring at the image for that long, he felt his vision blurring at the sides, and he blinked a few stale tears away from the irritation. The lights seemed to dim as if there was an electrical problem in the back room’s wiring, but the image of Noctyss continued speaking to him, both audially and on a deeper level as he felt a sort of pull in the Force, like the undertow after heavy ocean waves rolling back out.

“Any notions of truth to which you once clung…any preconceptions of the universe and all life in it…any logical assumptions which you believed were warranted…let them go. I did, and I’ve been all the better since.”

White noise grew in Ikutch’s ears, like the sort of mosquito buzzing sound in the background, or the warped sound of rapid air currents flowing through a twisting and turning air vent. He only shivered one more time before growing used to the cold, but the rhythmic sound of the Sith Lady’s voice, as grating as the pitch was, caused him to forget both the temperature drop as well as the gradual reddening of his vision.

“This is only the first of what I can bestow upon you in this preservation of my ideas. I’ve recorded days of lessons here though you’ll only be able to unlock new sections with the correct prompts. They’ll elude you at first. Endure, and you’ll find much in this immemorium which can be of use to a conscientious student of the Force.”

His back toward the door, Ikutch conversed with the hologram in spite of the mosquito buzz in his ears. Voices low and movements subtle, they’d barely even be noticeable from the end of the long hallway in the back of the storage unit. On its own accord, without any physical prompting, the door to the back room slid shut, leaving an empty hall with peeling posters advertising defunct soft drinks as a testament to the isolation in that room.

———

Hours later, as promised, the Twi’lek driver returned from the billiard hall. Carrying a bag full of Talpini takeout food, the jovial man wrapped his lekku around his shoulders and entered the storage unit. “I got the munchies for our way back!” the driver announced cheerily, finding no movement within as the labor droids had already completed their task. He set the doggie bag down and looked around the maze of stacked crates. “Hey, blue man! Did you get lost in here?” he joked.

Walking toward the back, the driver was met with the silence of the empty hallway and the shut door of the back room. “That door has been jammed for years…hey blue man, are you okay in there? Is the door stuck-“

Just then, the door burst open, giving the driver a little jump when Ikutch slumped outward and braced himself against the wall to avoid falling over. Casting his kaftan to the floor, the Pantoran stumbled down the hallway covered in a cold sweat. The driver, being quite familiar with the effects of overeating and overdrinking, assumed that Ikutch had simply gorged himself on a secret snack stash.

“Over here man, here,” the driver said while opening the door to the refresher in the hallway. “Take it easy.”

Not even answering, Ikutch practically fell into the refresher, landing on his hands and knees and feeling the squeeze in his midsection as he retched. His breakfast left him as he puked and then dry heaved, reeling from the dizziness and throbbing in his head. The driver entirely misread the situation and patted him on the back, assuming the problem to be mere nausea.

When Ikutch finished, the driver was kind enough to hand him a bottle of water to rinse his mouth out. “Maybe we should wait a while before eating the takeout I brought. Just until we get past the bumpy parts of the ride,” the portly Twi’lek said.

Panting even after he’d rinsed his mouth out and spat, Ikutch could only focus on one thing. “Dok…I need to see Dok,” he gasped.

“Yeah, don’t worry, man. I’m pretty sure he has some antacids at his shop…I mean, he sells pretty much everything.”

Leaning against the wall to stand, the Pantoran shook his head. “I need to talk to Dok…I need to know if he has more of these.” He pointed down the hall, toward the back room where the holocron was, but the driver had no idea what he was talking about. He barely even noticed when Ikutch brought the holocron into the van with them, clutching it like a pot of gold.


End file.
